The Rooster and I went out to dinner last night to meet up with a friend that he had graduated high school with 29 years ago. It was a nice evening and we were talking about the possibility of them relocating down to our fine state of North Carolina after her daughter graduated from high school. We were discussing the pros and cons of each town and what she was looking for – essentially a place for a young retirement. The evening was going great and eventually, the conversation turned to a beach trip that we are taking in a few weeks. READ MORE
A few weeks after I had my daughter, I met a woman with a girl a few days younger than mine. She wore a green onesie that read “Baby Activist,” and her name was Cameron, chosen specifically for its gender neutrality.
I thought I’d be that kind of mother, the kind who painted her feminist values onto the heart and soul of her child. That’s probably because I always thought of myself as a feminist — even as a tween, I had a Rosie the Riveter keychain, and when I got my first driver’s license, I would pop in my Helen Reddy cassette and imagine that I was woman, and one day, the world would hear me roar. READ MORE
OK, we have to talk. You have become extremely high maintenance. I can’t take you to the bathroom every 20 minutes. I’ve got better things to do. Like take my preschooler to the bathroom every 20 minutes.
Your persistent need to be emptied is cramping my style. I’d like to be able to “hold it” like the good old days. Remember them? I’d like to not leak when I laugh or cough or smile too widely. I’d like to be able to go out and not stress about whether there will be a bathroom nearby. I get seriously anxious when I’m at the park and there’s no John in sight because I know you’re going to start whining, “I gotta go! I gotta goooooo! Empty me ooooout!” You’re worse than a toddler. READ MORE